


Tension, Effects Of

by frith_in_thorns



Category: White Collar
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, no actual plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:05:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frith_in_thorns/pseuds/frith_in_thorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal's holding on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tension, Effects Of

Below, the water churns.

"Neal!" Peter shouts. "Hold on!" Which is probably one of the more pointless orders Peter has ever given, because _obviously_ that's what Neal's trying to do.

It's not like this is his first time hanging in mid-air — a good head for heights is practically required in his (past) line of work. But he's never been hanging _from_ someone before.

Peter's face is clenched with pain, but his grip on Neal's wrist is as strong as ever. Neal doesn't want to look down but he doesn't want to look up, either, because he's hating having to see in Peter's face exactly how much this is hurting him, his shoulder out of joint and twisted at an odd angle. Hell, _Neal's_ arm hurts enough from holding his weight, and it's still in place.

"Diana, Jones, please help," Neal begs, knowing they'll be picking him up through his earpiece, hopefully already be on their way. "Peter, god, I'm sorry."

"Neal, stop it," Peter says through gritted teeth.

Usually, Neal would try to swing himself, attempting to gain enough height for his other hand or his feet to find some support, enough to pull himself up with. But there's no way Peter would be able to stand that. There's no way Neal would be willing to do that to Peter.

He looks down at the water, wonders how deep it is, what's beneath it.

Peter's face is grey, his teeth drawing blood from his lower lip. Neal has no idea what he's holding onto with his other hand. With alarm he suddenly realises that Peter is leaning further forward than he had been. He's slipping.

Neal looks down again.

"I can make the drop!" he calls to Peter. "It's not that far. I'll be okay." He hopes he sounds a good deal more confident than he feels.

"Don't be stupid," Peter snaps.

"Peter, you're going to fall!"

"Am not."

He's desperate now. "We can't both go down! I've at least had practice." He _can_ make it. He can. He has to.

"Neal," Peter snarls, with an effort that makes Neal's chest clench. "I'm _not_ letting go." He's fighting for each breath. "Don't you _dare_."

Peter's voice holds him there, impossible to disobey with that much weight behind the words. Neal clings on, his palm sweating but Peter's grip secure. He stares up at Peter's face. _Don't fall. Please, don't fall._

Then Peter's head suddenly vanishes backwards and Neal barely has time to think what that means before he realises he's moving upwards, and a second later Jones has held of him, and a few seconds after that he's lying like a beached fish on the scaffolding boards, shivering and panting, his hand finally pried away from Peter's.

He sits up enough to get a good look at Peter, who's lying with his eyes closed and his head tipped back, and with exactly what holding Neal there had cost him written clear on his face, and then he crawls a couple of feet so that he can lean over the edge and throw up.

Diana puts a hand on the back of his neck, her thumb rubbing the base of his spine. "Give me your jacket," she says to Jones. "Caffrey's in shock."

"I'm not," Neal insists, although his teeth are chattering. When the jacket's draped over him he huddles gratefully into its warmth, shuffling back over to Peter.

Peter has his eyes open now. " _Ow_ ," he says, attempting to sit up. Jones presses him back down. "I am never doing that again. Ever."

Diana looks at his shoulder and winces sympathetically. "Paramedics are on their way," she says. "They'll give you the good drugs."

"Sounds wonderful," Peter sighs. He turns his head until he finds Neal. "Are you alright?"

"Am _I_ alright?" Neal asks, incredulously. Diana chuckles, and Jones grins and shakes his head. Because, _really_.

"You look like hell," Peter tells him.

Neal huffs. "Certainly nowhere near as much as you. I did tell you, I could have made the drop." Probably. Actually, now that he's no longer being driven by desperation it's looking less and less likely. Not that he'll admit that.

Peter glares at him. "Not a chance I'm letting you take. _Ever_. You're not dying on my watch, Caffrey — that's an _order_."

Neal believes him.

\- o -


End file.
